


Say Nothing

by Llama



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Llama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris can't say no to Allison, and that's just fine by her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheese/gifts).



> Set post-3a when Allison is 18. Although there was no way that seemed natural to bring it into the fic, please assume Allison is using contraception despite the lack of condom, unless your kinks dictate otherwise :) 
> 
> Note there is past implied Chris/Kate in the story.
> 
> Thanks to J and S for betaing at the speed of light, as always.

Chris can't say no to Allison.

There was a time when he could, but it seems as if it was years ago, not mere months. A time when he could stand firm, no matter how much she smiled, or cajoled, or outright sulked. It always used to annoy him when she sulked as a child; he'd tell her she'd be stuck like that, her bottom lip in a permanent pout. He'd flick it, say 'I could sit on that' and smile when she stamped off.

He'd give anything for her to smile, cajole or pout at him now.

 

“I need some money,” Allison says, folding her arms. Her face is blank; he'd say unreadable but he doesn't need to read her these days. She's always the same, at least around him.

“What do you need it for?” Part of him thinks that if he acts like a father she'll remember he still has authority over her. She may be eighteen now, but she still lives in his house. Sometimes he's grateful for that, but sometimes...

Sometimes part of him wishes she'd just walked away. 

“Does it matter?”

“No,” he says, and opens the drawer of his desk. She knows he keeps cash in there, could easily take it for herself, but she never does. She doesn't need to. “But it would give me an idea how much you need.”

“Shopping trip with Lydia,” she shrugs, so Chris sighs, rolling up all the bills he has and snapping a band around them. 

“You know you can use the card I gave you,” he reminds her. “The limit--”

“Yeah.” Allison drops the roll of bills into her purse, opening it far enough for him to see the bundle of papers and letters stuffed into it, wrapped around a scuffed cell phone that isn't hers. She learned from the best. “I know the limit.”

He's not sure she does. 

 

She's stopped telling him where she's going most days, though he hasn't stopped asking. One time in maybe nine or ten she'll answer, and he thinks it's the truth, or part of it, when she does. 

Tonight, for example: the shopping trip will be long over, but she could be at Lydia's, or she could be somewhere else by now. She could be with other friends, or with complete strangers, but even though she could tell him anything these days, and without consequences, she won't. She won't come in all bright-eyed and giggling, flushed from flirting or an illicit beer, and sit on the arm of his chair to tell him all about her day. 

She might not come home at all, and Chris couldn't even say with any certainty where he'd be able to find her if there was an emergency. It hasn't escaped his notice that Scott and Isaac live in the same house, and that there seems to be no obvious jealousy or tension between the two boys. There's a reason he drinks at home these days instead of frequenting the bars where some of Gerard's former lackeys still hang out; nobody gossips like hunters with a few beers down their necks and too much time on their hands.

A few more glasses of whisky take those thoughts away, and he's grateful for it. He remembers coming home from school, from the library, from training to find Gerard with a glass of the same whisky in his hand on far too many nights, and it should feel nostalgic, but it just makes him feel old. First you're a man, then you're a father, and then you turn into your own father. 

There was a time he'd have been okay with that.

The front door bangs dead on two in the morning and jolts him awake. The glass is tilted in his hand and the chair smells of whisky, and this is not how he wants Allison to see him, but there's not a lot he can do about it because he's never going to hope she ignores him. 

“Dad?” she says, hovering in the doorway, and it's the first time in at least six weeks she's called him that, long enough for his eyes to prickle at the word. 

“Yeah,” he says, tongue clumsy with the taste of whisky still on it, and “Sorry,” though he's not sure what he's sorry for right at this moment. He's spent a lot of time apologising lately, it's almost a reflex. 

“You didn't need to stay up,” she says, and her voice is softer than it has been in a while. He doesn't think he's imagining it, doesn't think it's just the alcohol taking the sharpness away, because she's playing with her hair, twisting it around her finger like she used to. It used to make him want to pull her hand away, but he's missed it all the same.

“I did,” he says, and because he can blame the whisky, or just being half-awake, he adds, “I love you.”

Allison's hand drops her hair, pats the door frame uncertainly a couple of times before she speaks. “I know,” she says.

He's not sure if he said the right thing, or the wrong thing. He just knows it's the truth.

“Was she--” she starts, and he hears her swallow hard before she continues. “Did you-- was she right, with the things she said?”

That's a much more dangerous question. He should tell her to go to bed (except she doesn't do what he tells her any more) or he should simply refuse to answer (he can't refuse her anything, not if he ever wants her forgiveness) or he should put her off until tomorrow because it's complicated (it really, really is).

“Sometimes,” he says instead, and lets his eyes fall shut.

 

Breakfast is silent as usual, but Allison seems thoughtful instead of angry. She doesn't slam any crockery around or bang any cupboard doors, which is a pleasant change.

“Don't drink tonight,” she tells him when she gets up, dragging her stuffed purse onto her shoulder as she stands. It still looks full, full of Chris's dirty little secrets that aren't so secret any more. 

_Mmm, there's something about showering after a good hunt that always makes me think of you. Wish you were here?_

He can't tell why she's asking this of him, not from looking at her. He opens his mouth to ask why, but she just holds up her hand.

“I'm not _ordering_ you,” she says, shifting a little as if she's nervous. That's new. “I'm asking you.” There's something new in the way she looks at him too.

“All right,” he says, because he has to trust her. One of them needs to make the decisions around here, and he's not the one who should be doing it, clearly.

_Do you think about her when she's in the shower, big brother? Maybe if she knew, she'd leave the door unlocked for you too._

It's still morning when he first has the urge to pour himself a whisky, and that sends a jolt through him because he hadn't even noticed that habit before today. How could he not have noticed? He logs into his email to distract himself, sends out a couple of responses to inquiries. He's been neglecting the business, not that they need the money, but there's a family reputation to uphold.

_I was such a bratty teenager, Chris, I don't know why you didn't just put me over your knee. Maybe it's not too late to try it. I'll let you call me Allison if you like..._

Family reputation. It's funny to think that at least as far as the business goes they do still have a reputation worth upholding. Outside Beacon Hills, at any rate.

Without the whisky he can't stop the thoughts coming back. The things half-forgotten that Allison will have read by now, or worse, the ones seared into his memory by shame, ones that are still recent enough that he hasn't dared jerk off in weeks because he can't stand to get himself off to fantasies his daughter knows in excruciating, minute detail.

_You're no fun these days. I bet if she knew she'd come to you, though. That'd do it for you, wouldn't it? You wouldn't be able to resist if she walked up to you and pulled off her top, took your hands and put them on those cute little breasts of hers. I bet you're hard just thinking about it._

No. No daughter should ever know a hundredth of the things Allison knows about him now. And now he needs another cold shower.

His hair's still wet from his third shower, cold and clammy on the back of his neck, when Allison gets home. It's not even midnight, but he'd thought-- he'd thought maybe she'd be home earlier than this tonight. Thought that maybe she wanted to talk, and even though it wasn't likely to end well, part of him had been waiting for that. It'd be a relief to get it over.

He can feel it when she's in the doorway, even though he's standing by the windows on the far side of the room. He imagines she's looking around for a glass, for a bottle. She won't find one. 

“Hi,” she says, and he hears a rustle. When he turns she's dropping her coat onto a chair. “Thanks for--” She waves a hand around the room. Thanks for waiting up, thanks for not drinking, thanks for something else, he doesn't know but it doesn't really matter. He's done what she asked. 

“What's this about, Allison?” he asks, because he's a lot of things, but he's never been a coward. She's old enough to move out if that's what she's decided. He wouldn't blame her, he'll give her whatever she needs if she'll just let him stay in her life, as much as she can stand.

“Right,” she says, and her fingers are twitchy, fastening and unfastening the top button on her shirt. She's watching him, but there's no judgment in her eyes. “You said you'd do anything I wanted, anything I needed.”

 _Yeah_ , Chris thinks. _She's going to move out._

“And I meant it,” he says, taking a few steps towards her. He feels his brows crinkle together as she unfastens another button then, and another. “Allison?”

“You can say no,” she says cryptically, and pulls the shirt over her head. 

She planned this, he realizes. Planned it for the effect, because she's not wearing one of her dozens of bras or silky camisoles or any of the other lingerie he knows Victoria helped her pick out even before she started demanding money to do her own shopping.

No, she's standing in front of him and reaching out for his hands to place them on warm, soft skin. It's not cold in here, but her nipples are hard under his palms when she brushes his hands over them, and he isn't far behind them. 

Chris can't look at where his hands are, as if that would make it more real. He shouldn't even be able to look his daughter in the eye with his fingertips tracing patterns on her skin, but instead he can't look away. There's a softness in her eyes, a light that's both new and achingly familiar.

“You can say no,” she repeats, still moving his hands for him, but firmer now, and he can see her tongue flick out to wet her lips, can see her swallow hard when she tilts her head back a little, pulls him closer. “But I'd really like you to say nothing right now.”

She's letting him off the hook, he sees that. He couldn't say yes, couldn't take responsibility for this as he should. He's a weak man; not out in the world with his public face on, or in the dark woods with his guns and his knives, but here, where it counts. If he was the man he'd like to think he is, he'd say no. He'd walk out of here. But the man who would do that isn't the man who received those letters, who exchanged those texts and emails and more with his sister, and Allison-- Allison knows that.

When he stops resisting, she knows that too.

He doesn't even realize he's moving until the couch is there against the back of his legs, and he doesn't even know how his legs are bare, how his jeans ended up somewhere around his ankles. Allison smiles when he sinks down under her hands, bites her lip when she climbs into his lap. He can't take his eyes off the indents in that plush, wet--

 _I could sit on that,_ he used to say, and flick the pout away

\--mouth that bobs in front of his eyes, draws them down with it until it blurs and it's on his, in the sweetest, softest, yet somehow _greediest_ kiss he's ever had. 

“Hands down,” Allison says when she pulls her mouth back, and it takes him a moment to make sense of what she's saying. She doesn't pull his hands away, though hers still cover his, just waits for them to release her breasts, for them to force themselves down to the couch seat. 

“Keep them there,” she says, letting them go. Her hair swings against his face when she lifts up, resettles herself on his thighs. Her lips brush against his cheek as she whispers, “unless you want me to tie them up,” and he does, he wants her to do that for him, do that for herself, and he opens his mouth to tell her so but he remembers in time--

_say nothing,_

\--and he closes it again. He catches the twist of approval that flashes across her lips, and he knows it's a reward when her knuckles graze over his erection, when that gives way to fingers gripping him through the thin, damp material that stretches over his groin. Her thighs are cool under the flimsy skirt that teases across his skin as she moves above him, and he wants to run his hands over them, see if they are as smooth as he imagines. 

But he keeps the back of his hands pressed into the couch, and she hums, a pleased little sound, every time his muscles strain with the effort of holding them there, every time he has to squeeze his hands into fists. 

“Is this what you thought it would be like?” she asks him with a sly smile, when her fingers finally, finally wrap around his cock. Sly because he can't speak, jaw clenched; a smile because she told him not to. 

He shakes his head, because no, how could he have ever thought it could be like this? His imagination is a poor, withered thing, full of worn-out fantasies, dated porn scenarios and the barely remembered cheap erotica of his youth. That isn't news to him: there's a reason he kept Kate's letters, their email exchanges, their texts. They were still nothing like this. He'd imagined, maybe, in the wildest of his most desperately improbable fantasies, Allison _giving_ him... something, something of what he wanted. Never all, but a glimpse, a touch maybe. Something. He'd still pictured the things he could teach her if she'd let him, the pleasures he could introduce her to.

He'd never imagined her _taking_ this from him. 

He never imagined that she'd envelop him the way she does, but she rubs herself hard against the head of his cock until he can't see straight, and when he can't take any more she teases him with a quick press into soft, wet warmth, sinks down and down until he's deep inside, until it feels like he's the one who is opened up, the one pierced to the core.

“Allison,” he gasps, and her fingertips dig into his shoulders, her muscles squeeze more tightly around his cock, and it might be a warning but his self-control has never been as fragile as it is right now. 

"Shhh," she says, and maybe she wants to think of someone else, and that's why-- but her eyes are open, her fingers tracing his cheekbone, his hairline, the outer rim of his ear like she can draw an outline of him, contain him in this space. "Shhh, not yet," and her hand is spread over his mouth, down his neck, under his shirt and then her tongue is doing a much better job of keeping him quiet until she pulls back, flushed pink and sleepy-eyed.

"Please," he mouths silently, lips pressed against her fingers once more. "Please." 

"Okay, yes," she tells him, and holds his face. Keeps him there, his eyes on her, while he comes, and comes, and comes.

 

Chris still can't say no to Allison. 

But these days, that's not as much of a problem as it used to be.


End file.
